


on the nature of daylight

by souchipi



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Fashion AU, M/M, for mila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 19:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/souchipi/pseuds/souchipi
Summary: In which Hyukjae and Donghae are two fashion designers whose lives happened to overlap.





	on the nature of daylight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaeopardy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaeopardy/gifts).



The lights of the city are winking from afar through the hallway window when Hyukjae wakes up. The sheets are sleek around him; they absorb the sweat off his body and make him feel so warm that he considers staying in bed for the day. Yet again, he chooses to get up because supplementary minutes in bed will bring him nothing but liberal and fuzzy thoughts that would somehow jail him inside his own mind for so long he wouldn’t notice the skies slowly turning grey.

In fact, it’s useless to lock yourself up in your room when you are anywhere other than  _home_. Home has the tendency to suck us back into ourselves and disconnect us from anything that might disturb our inner peace when it’s needed to; but when you are five thousand miles away from where you really belong, the need to head into the uncharted wilderness of an absolutely unknown city’s streets and feel like a complete stranger to the eyes of myriads of people, becomes way  _too_  tempting to simply ignore.

So he makes his way to the balcony, watches as the water slowly sneaks and meanders around the ancient rundown buildings of Venice, the small boats are looking so much like blood cells flowing through its veins. There’s the smell of cigarette smoke and freshly baked bread lost in the air, the town’s noise is slowly drowning around him and Hyukjae thinks that he will never feel connected to any other city the way he does with Venice. It makes him want to leave everything behind and move out of his very sad excuse of an apartment in Seoul to come to live here. The world is too colossal after all, there’s no reason for him to stay stuck in the same place when he can fly anywhere on earth. But the thought doesn’t really linger for more than five seconds into his soul; sometimes the small pieces we leave unearthed in our hometowns occasionally pull back at us, making it hard for us to breathe anywhere other than there.

It’s around noon when he leaves his hotel room. The weather is so hot he feels like his head is in a dang oven. Different people brush past him speaking languages he’s unable to clearly understand as he stations himself at the window display of a shop selling different suits of delicate craftsmanship of Italian artisans; How fancy they look, he thinks. The designers must surely have created this line in order to prevent the extinction of the Italian textile tradition by reproducing local patterns and motifs. His eyes linger appreciatively on the checkered pieces of fabric; Clothing is indeed a language all of its own.

After strolling around the narrowed streets of Venice, exploring the Venetian Lagoon, discovering Murano’s rich glass-making heritage all while watching the colorful houses and serene canals of Burano and eating half his weight in gelato, Zhoumi calls him to confirm their meeting at Palazzo Fortuny, one of the most renewed fashion museums in town where he is expected to be clever and inventive later that day.

“Just making sure that you won’t chicken out at the last minute,” Zhoumi says and Hyukjae sighs.

Somehow, it had all started a few months ago when Hyukjae’s name started being featured in every single international Fashion magazine that could ever exist. He hadn’t given it much thought at first, the whole thing seemed so farfetched that he buried it deep down the back of his mind and decided to not pick at it again; And at some point, it eventually turned into the sort of background noise that he doesn’t even bother listening to. He believed that the fuss will die in a week and he’ll get back to designing the weirdest looking clothes and holding exhibits where his guests would look impressed while they’re not. Yet, when the small characters of his name started to make skin with the big sounding Italian and French words, the background noise became real and he slowly found himself waking up to the fuzzy blur of fame he’d never ever dreamed about getting into.

It’s really not like he believes that his garments weren’t good enough to be exposed to the whole world. In fact, his couture-line is known for following today’s fast-paced fashion while being heavily inspired by traditional Korean garments, which are built out of squares and rectangles and everything that might seem bombastic to the fashion world. It’s just that Hyukjae never thought in a million years that his name would be in the same sentence as Vogue Italia or Cosmopolitan; sometimes, our inner voices speak louder than we do and they tend to coax us into thinking that we’re standing ten steps ahead from where we are supposed to. But it only took Hyukjae a round trip ticket and two heavy suitcases to wake up from the downcast state of denial he didn’t realize he was slowly getting sucked into.

It's exactly half-past six when he decides it’s time to get back to his hotel room. The sky is already of thin layers of orange; the air is quite warm but not stiflingly so. Hyukjae concedes that the world will be pitch black again and the lights will be so blinding that he’d have to smile through his wrinkles. But that can’t exactly be as bad as the flashlights that will be screening his every movement two hours from now. How funny it is that your life could drastically take a turn when you least expect it to.

He takes a quick hot steamy shower, sprays lavender mist all over his body and heads back to his room to dress up. He sorts through his clothes for his well-fitted tailored black suit he’s brought with him all the way from Seoul and then proceeds to style his hair; the tangled dark brown locks fall straight across his face making him look good enough to mask the worry lines deeply inscribed in every inch of his face.

As he makes his way to the doorway, he considers for a minute—or probably less than one, but just enough to let the thought take shape into his mind—turning back on his heels and plunging under the covers until morning comes. But he abandons the idea before it even grows; it would be senseless to succumb to his thoughts at this point anyway. There’s nothing for him to stress about, he’ll just be holding a solo exhibition like he always does in Korea; there will be loads of people giving him great feedback about his work, others who will be so enthusiastic they’d consider taking pictures with him—Now that he thinks about it, there would probably be a lot of foreign words he won’t be able to clearly understand— but that’s just that. Zhoumi will be there with him through it all, they’ll celebrate the wrap up of his event afterward with Wine and Champagne—courtesy of being in the universally-considered-most-beautiful city in the world—and cortisol will find a way of pumping itself out of his blood circulation right then.

Whatever, he says when the rasping of the door meets his ears. Time doesn’t stand still for anyone to mull over hypothetical ideas.

*

There are lights filtering through the entrance hall, with too many right angles, too much unbroken concrete. It was a museum, maybe, but one that was truly alive. Wall hangings, paintings, and lamps are furnishing the first floor, and right in the middle, Hyukjae’s couture-line was proudly filling the empty space just like he imagined it to be. There was already a little crowd milling about the area, all exchanging words and looks and Hyukjae hates this; hates that he can’t make much out of their conversations, hates that he can’t see past their backs. So he tries to focus on the background music instead; the acoustics are superb – not the echoing cacophony he’d expect, given the size of the place and the amount of the people – but a low comfortable hum on the floor. He taps his feet against its marbled surface, trying to follow the beat before it gets replaced by another, and he suddenly feels the stones weighing his heart lightening just a bit when Zhoumi appears into his view, casually walking past the security guards after checking his name on the guest list.

“Look at you, a true fashion terrorist,” Zhoumi says with amusement slipping out of his voice, his eyes are flickering up and down Hyukjae’s figure.

Hyukjae laughs. “Nice pun, but I’d like to think that I’m hanging out today with a regular guy instead of my assistant which makes me as much of a regular guy as anyone here.”

Zhoumi snorts. “I’d actually like to think that it’s quite the opposite.”

They walk around the place with Zhoumi continuously making shallow jokes about anything that might help Hyukjae relieve a bit of his stress and anxiety. He really doesn’t blame him at all, he would be stressed too. After all, no matter how confident you are, it’s not easy to have your garments exposed to myriads of renewed designers, with different nationalities and different personalities, ready to review every single detail and feature—and perhaps leave the place at the sight of the first flaw or imperfection. It makes Hyukjae feel so much like he has his head on the chopping block.

“Perhaps you should go talk to them already. You know, you could introduce your work or something?” Zhoumi suggests out of the blue, his voice is carrying a matter-of-fact vibe that makes Hyukjae want to laugh.

“I’ve done this before, you know. It’s not like it’s my first exhibition.” Hyukjae says as he stands in front of a window displaying the garments of some designer he can’t correctly spell the name. François something, he must be French. Not that he’s discarding the possibility of non-French people being called that way. But it’s a French name, and it’s rare for people to adopt a foreign name. He thinks it’d be odd if he ever finds out that someone out in the middle east is called Hyukjae.

“I thought maybe you could walk them through your approach in designing or anything that could help you strike a conversation with them? I mean, I know that your English isn’t  _that_  great—which is why you should’ve hired a professional translator by the way—but could you at least do something instead of standing around doing nothing?”

Hyukjae frowns. “How come you’re stressing over this more than I am?”

“I can’t begin to point out how ironic that statement is.” Zhoumi looks like he’s about to say something else, but pauses halfway through his sentence when he gets interrupted by a middle-aged woman dressed in a strapless cocktail dress made of a silky black fabric that shimmered the same color of Hyukjae’s suit if the light hit from a certain angle.

“Gentleman,” She nods at Zhoumi, then carefully switches her gaze to Hyukjae’s direction. “You are Mr. Lee; may I presume?” She says, her hazelnut hair is falling in perfect curls on her olive shoulders and her hazel eyes are looking like the bulging, staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused in some degree, perhaps by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a heavy cord which she intellectually wore.

Hyukjae turns with a start, a slight but undeniable blush crawls up his neck. He smiles at her affirmatively, his hands are getting sweatier with every move he makes. He’s seen her face plastered on many magazines before, but for some reason, he finds himself unable to remember her name. And not for the first time that day, he curses his short-term memory for giving up on him when it’s most advised not to.

She links their arms and smiles back at him. “My name is Francesca Fernandez, the co-designer of the Swedish ‘DNA’ couture-line. I’ve seen your garments and I was deeply impressed by the mixture of traditional influences you’ve managed to perfectly transmit through your work. And I’d really, really love to hear more about your modern interpretation of traditional Korean clothes—more precisely the Hanbok— if you may allow me to.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Hyukjae manages to say with a shade of pink on his cheeks, as he professionally leads the way to where his couture-line is exposed and thinks that this is it; the line in the sand.

People slowly and gradually crowd around him the moment he starts explaining to Francesca the origins of his work and its evolution as it gradually started getting closer to the essence of the original Korean style while remaining increasingly appealing to a contemporary audience. Some praised him about his immense creativity, his handwork as well as his ideas while others started questioning him about his demi-couture line and suggesting possible collaborations’ ideas. And it somehow feels like time has stopped pushing through life for an instant, like it never really existed, when two other well-known Mexican designers deeply congratulated him without exactly saying anything; sometimes you don’t need to use the right words for the message to get through. And Hyukjae thinks that no matter how weak the glow of memories would be in the future, he will remember this moment with the clarity of ten years earlier. He will remember feeling deeply integrated into the world of fashion for the first time. Because nothing really beats the feeling of accomplishment, the feeling of having the world under your feet—in whatever form it may come. And It’s really funny, he thinks when he catches Zhoumi quietly watching him from the other side, how everything remains the same no matter how far one may go.

Less than two hours later, overwhelmed with the attention and the sudden seething torrent of emotions that had crossed his mind at a possible speed of hundred miles a second; Hyukjae makes his way to the balcony. The city’s lights blink back at him, a sense of warmth springs from the cold and envelops him as his fingers hover over the cigarette around his lips. He’s not much of a smoker, but smoking always helps him cope in some way. He brings the lighter close, presses it down several times but no flame appears; it just hisses as if the fuel in the lighter is escaping. He sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair.

“Here.” A white Bic lighter comes into his view just as a deep voice in a heavy Korean accent follows after. Hyukjae looks up quickly to see a man, around his height, possibly his age, dressed in a white button-down shirt, cashmere coat, and dark-wash jeans. His hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and his eyes hold a scary familiarity that reminds Hyukjae of his hometown. He’s smiling finely—so finely, Hyukjae doesn’t see the dimple in his right cheek just under his ear.

“Thanks.” Hyukjae presses the cigarette in between his lips and lights it up. The ash sprinkles across the cement as he inhales deeply, letting the smoke seep into his cells washing away every drop of adrenaline that might have been running through his blood for the past few hours. He stares at the lighter in his hand and manages to say after a few seconds of silence. “Ever heard of the white lighter myth?”

The man leans back on the wall. “Yes, courtesy of Kurt Cobain.”

Hyukjae laughs. “You’re well informed.” He pauses. “I’m Lee Hyukjae.”

“I know who you are, you’re the star of the day.” He shakes his hand. “I’m Lee Donghae.”

Hyukjae looks awkward at the sudden compliment, but smiles nevertheless, eyes fixed on the front church seemingly floating, surrounded by water on all four sides. “Right.”

“You don’t have to be so stranded. Your couture-line is very mesmerizing and if I were you, I’d never shut up about it.” Says Donghae, sensing the discomfort in Hyukjae’s voice.

Hyukjae chuckles and looks amusingly at him. “Can I hire you to do the professional talk then?”

Donghae reaches out to take a cigarette out of Hyukjae’s packet. “Well, I’m not much of a talker myself, but I would’ve gladly considered the offer if I hadn’t a pile of clothes waiting for me to design.” He examines the cigarette and purses his lips together. “I can’t believe you brought Korean branded cigarettes to Venice.”

Hyukjae raises his eyebrows. “Couldn’t feel safe on my way here without them. Are you a designer too?”

Donghae carefully places the cigarette in between his lips “You’re in Italy, you’re supposed to support the local market. And yes, I’d have no business here if I weren’t one.”

Hyukjae moves closer and brings the flame to the tip of Donghae’s cigarette. Their eyes meet for a second before they part away. “Well, you could be someone’s guest.” Says Hyukjae, leaning back on the wall.

The smoke wriggles between them, makes curves around the night air and Hyukjae relaxes a bit for the first time that day. “You’re the only person I know here.” Donghae points out.

“The only person you just got to know.” Hyukjae corrects him and they both laugh. He fidgets with his cigarette before stabbing it on the pavement. “Do you have a workshop in Seoul or something?”

Donghae inhales sharply, the smoke slowly filling his lungs. “Nothing big, just a small one in Busan. I mostly work alone, whenever I’m inspired enough. I once got the chance to design for a decently popular Korean boy band, but that was it.”

Hyukjae looks impressed. “I’d love to see some of your work.”

Donghae laughs. “I wouldn’t want you to, you’re the founder of an amazing line. I feel pressured to live up to the standard.”

“Don’t belittle yourself.” The street’s yellow light shadows Hyukjae’s smile. “You’ve already seen my work, It’s only fair that I get to see yours.”

“Have you ever been told that you’re a manipulator?”

Hyukjae laughs. “It takes one to recognize another.” 

Donghae is about to say something when Hyukjae’s phone goes off. He scoops it up and leans on the glass balcony railings, the silence is quietly drowning around them. Donghae is still smoking his cigarette when Hyukjae ends his call.

“It was Zhoumi, my assistant. We’re going to celebrate at some bar down the street.” He stares at the cigarette between Donghae’s fingers. It was almost short enough to burn him. “Um…Do you mind joining us?”

Donghae leans forward to crush his cigarette. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Hyukjae snorts. “You can’t be intruding when you’re invited.”

The look on Donghae’s face tells him that something isn’t quite right, but he pushes the thought out of his mind when all Donghae says in reply is “Have you ever been told that you’re assertive?”

Hyukjae smiles, there’s a single peak of light underneath his lips. “That, too, takes one to recognize another.”

 

*

It was late, decently late, possibly around two in the morning in a cornered bar somewhere down the street. They’ve barely had anything to eat aside from the cashew nuts and popcorn they were served with their drinks. The place is hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, sometimes overshadowed by the rock music that dominates the atmosphere. The crowd is young, college students for the most part.

“This reminds of the way we used to have nights out every Friday. I find it sad that we hardly have time to hang out now that we’re old and less fun.” Zhoumi points out as he takes a sip of beer.

“Speak for yourself. I still manage to have my nights out every once in a while.” Says Hyukjae.

“You know what I mean.” Zhoumi’s eyes linger on a red-haired girl sitting by the bar. “I feel bummed that we’d have to take off in a week though.” 

“We can’t stay here forever. We’ll have to leave at some point, the workshop won’t function on its own.”

Zhoumi sighs and abruptly glances at Donghae after a few seconds of silence. “I was wondering, did you specifically come here to attend the exhibition?”

Donghae fidgets with his beer. “Not exactly. I’m sort of on a long-running holiday.”

Hyukjae raises his eyebrows “A long-running holiday?”

“Something like that, I’m just trying to find inspiration for my next line.”

Zhoumi knocks his beer against Donghae’s. “Good luck with that, losing inspiration is tough, I give you that.” His eyes follow the red-haired girl who’s slowly making her way to the dance floor and he nudges Hyukjae. “Be right back.”

They watch him slothfully winding his way through the crowd to the dance floor. Hyukjae turns around to take another swing of his beer.

“He’s nice, very talkative, but nice,” Donghae says and Hyukjae laughs.

“He is a very good friend. Today wouldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for him.” Hyukjae says with a hint of gratitude in his voice.

Donghae shoves a mouthful of cashew nuts in his mouth. “Does it still feel surreal?”

Hyukjae looks at the stage where the live band is singing a song he doesn’t seem to recognize but taps his fingers to its beat anyway. “In some way, yes. I mean, work is my life, fashion is my life; I don’t know where I would be if I weren’t a designer. And today’s exhibition…it had somehow fueled my passion for fashion again.”

Donghae looks from Hyukjae’s face to his beer. “What made you make a career out of it?”

Hyukjae stares at him, stays silent for a second before resuming. “This is a bit embarrassing to talk about, but when I was in high school I used to make my own clothing even though I had no idea what I was doing. I made myself a sweater that was so large my legs looked very miniature in comparison—my friends saw me dressed that way and no longer wanted to be seen with me in lunch. It made me somehow realize the power that clothing has, people will perceive you in a whole other way if you are prettily dressed. When I started taking more interest in the way I dress, people started pointing out my best features—ones they’d usually overlook because they were too perplexed by my weird outfits to notice.”

Donghae hums. “Pretty convincing, except ‘your best features being overlooked’ part.”

Hyukjae laughs with a faint shade of pink on his cheeks. “You’re a smooth talker, aren’t you? Thank you, but I can guarantee that you’d take back your words if you ever come across my high school yearbook.”

Donghae leans back on his chair. “Well, I looked pretty ugly in high school too.”

“I’m totally not buying that!” Hyukjae says matter-of-factly and Donghae laughs.

“We’re even then.” He pauses to watch a drunk girl falling harmlessly on the floor as she stomps her way to the toilet, before catching back on his sentence. “I never was as passionate by fashion as you were. Designing was just something I decided to do because there was nothing else out there for me. I wanted to get into acting but it was too expensive. So I studied art history in Seoul and after that, I took some fashion courses at a small institution in Busan where I learned how to design and make clothes. And that was just it.”

Hyukjae looks thoughtful for a moment. “Why don’t you get into acting now that you can afford it?”

Donghae takes a sip of beer. “Well, sometimes it happens that you lose interest in things. I guess, now I’m just going with the flow. But I have to say that today’s exhibition had, in some way, sparked my interest in fashion again.”

Hyukjae raises his eyebrows. “Should I take you at your word?”

Donghae laughs. “Yes. You can also add that to the list of your achievements. You’ve managed to save a lost soul today.” 

Hyukjae’s smiles genuinely at him, he goes to say something but gets interrupted by Zhoumi who walks slothfully to them with the red-haired woman he’s been gawking at ever since they’ve come into the lounge. He grabs his bag and gestures at the door.

“I guess I’ll have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hyuk. It was nice meeting you Donghae.” He says in one breath and storms out of the bar so fast that Hyukjae’s left with sentences hanging unfinished from his open mouth.

“Well.”

“Well,” Donghae repeats after him, and their eyes linger a bit longer than normal on each other before breaking into laughter.

“I honestly thought she would blow him off,” Hyukjae says, digging his nail against the wooden table. “I can’t believe that I would’ve been left completely alone if you weren’t with me.” He pauses for a second. “Did that just make me sound…”

“Desperate for company?” Donghae interrupts him abruptly and Hyukjae laughs.

“I was going for another term, but yeah, something like that.”

“You’re not,” Donghae assures him. “I hated being alone when I first came here, but it gradually got better.”

“Why are you traveling alone though?” Hyukjae asks with a shade of curiosity in his voice.

The bartender swings by and leaves two extra Heineken beers on the counter. ‘it’s on the house.’ he says. Donghae grabs one and taps it against the table. “They probably expect us to tip them later.” 

Hyukjae raises his eyebrows. “We can’t ever have that in Korea anyway.” He shoots a look to Donghae. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

There’s a long silence that settles, one that makes Hyukjae wonder if he’s hit a sensitive nerve. Donghae lights a cigarette and looks at an empty dot in the midst of the crowd. “Well, at first I was just looking for inspiration and now… I guess I’m just trying to disconnect.”

Hyukjae wants to know more but decides to not drag it further when Donghae leaves it at that. He takes a sip of beer and says instead. “Well, this is the worst place to disconnect at.”

Donghae keeps a straight face. “Tonight I’m just a random guy in a bar.”

“More like a random guy in a balcony, but that works too.” Donghae laughs, his smile is blindingly shadowed by the center lamp’s spiking, and Hyukjae finds it hard to look away.

A new tune starts filling the room, the guitarist doesn’t just play his electric guitar, he rocks it, rocking the whole bar with it; people suddenly start dancing more passionately—more forcefully. And Hyukjae doesn’t know what to do, he’s never been alone at a bar for hours talking to a man without any slight sign of physical intimacy. Under other circumstances, he would’ve probably asked Donghae to the dance floor, but there was this undeniable feeling, this undying chemistry, this matter-of-fact vibe lost in the air that he can’t turn a blind eye to. He hardly knows anything about Donghae, he doesn’t know whether he’s interested in men, whether he has a lover or a family back home. The only thing he knows is the fact that their eyes linger just a little bit longer than normal on each other before breaking contact, that their hands slightly brush, non-accidently, whenever Donghae passes him the lighter. These were small facts; ones he can’t build theories on. These were just random facts he would probably be called insane for overanalyzing, for painting in pretty colors when they are supposed to come out in nude.

Donghae passes him a cigarette,  _Gauloise_ , French branded. Hyukjae wonders if Donghae keeps cigarette packs from every country he visits. He wonders if he’ll be able someday to draw a map of the world based on every cigarette smoke he’s had around his lungs.

The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. And they’re talking again. They’re talking about their favorite music, the books they’ve read or haven’t read, about Venice and its lights and its small boats—Hyukjae says that he’d like to live there someday. Donghae says that he wants to buy a spacious flat in Marseille, he was there a month ago and thought that he’d like to come back when the skies are blue again.

They leave the bar an hour later, the sky is glowing and turning whiter as the sun rises, the air warms to an ambient twenty or so. It’s a perfect dawn, one to be savored instead of squandered, but they are both a little bit drunk, tipsily drunk, standing side by side on the curb waiting for land taxis to appear. There’s nothing much to say. They’re just waiting for a cab. They are not supposed to talk about anything, they could perhaps complain about the lack of cabs and that’s just it. But their shoulders are brushing against each other, and they are standing so close there’s hardly any space left in between them. A taxi drives by, slows down, and then speeds up when neither of them flags it down. 

"Why didn't you flag it down?" Hyukjae asks.

"Why didn't you?"  

And they're next staring at each other long enough for Hyukjae to think that there shouldn’t be a room for misunderstandings. Not when Donghae is looking at him like that—so intensively so deservingly so vulnerably— desire clearly is written all over his face; these shouldn’t be some random facts or crazy theories he would be called insane for; not when he sees the lights of the imminent taxi clearly mirrored in Donghae’s eyes.

So he kisses him, sloppily, with the strong scent of old wine and Tabaco being exchanged in the intermingling of their billowing breaths. And Donghae kisses him back, with as much force and desire—a kiss speaking for the seven hours they’ve spent in cranky bars and aired up balconies— very informal and mechanical.

*

The sky is of a shade of blue when Hyukjae wakes up, and from the window, the horizon is almost apparent. There’s the smell of dawn and rain lost in the air all mixed with the smell of menthol cigarettes and intoxicating perfumes and Hyukjae doesn’t have to open his eyes to know the source. He does realize quite instantly that he isn’t entirely alone and that for the first time since he’s come to Venice, he’s fully made use of the second pillow that’s always been firmly confined in the cornered closet of his hotel room.

He rolls onto his side. Donghae is sitting by the window wearing what seems to be his bathrobe, watching the scenery Hyukjae wakes up to every day; city lamps and water boats, sunshine and rundown buildings. The morning sun is lighting up his wet hair in shallow light and Hyukjae notices the warm brown caramel highlights at the end of his ponytail; there’s a lot more to observe now that they’re not sitting at bars, smiles and grins shadowed by yellow streetlights and cranky central lamps. And Hyukjae usually hates the after-math of one-night stands, hates waking up to complete strangers sharing his bed, hates the confrontation, the small talk, the laugh-it-off method before farewells are spoken, and the feeling of being left off with awkward memories. But there’s something in Donghae that he can’t exactly put a finger on. Something that makes him want to hold onto him a bit longer after they both reach their climaxes, something that makes him want to stay in and watch him blow smoke into the air. Something—just something.

“I’m not going to believe that you had so much sleep last night that you woke up at such an early hour.” Hyukjae supports himself on his two elbows. “Not that I’m discarding the possibility of you being a vampire.”

Donghae glances back at him, his lips are slowly pulling into a wide smile. “I certainly wouldn’t be standing under broad daylight if I were a vampire.”

Hyukjae rolls the blanket off his body. “True, you seem too sunlight-starved for a vampire.”

Donghae fidgets with the lighter in his hand. “I just wanted to know what kind of view you wake up to.”

“What does it look like from your room?” Hyukjae asks.

“Nothing big. Rundown buildings, a woman making out with her boyfriend in the doorway every morning, more rundown buildings.”

Hyukjae scoffs. “Totally not the kind of view I would envy you for.”

Donghae’s laugh echoes in the air, dissolving the quietness in its density, and they’re next sitting in silence. The kind of silence that is not exactly comfortable, but not quite the opposite either. Possibly the one people get used to so much they give up on attributing a name to. Hyukjae rolls out of the bed, stomps his way to the center of the room, and they’re next standing side by side, both looking out of the window. There’s a shade of pink on Donghae’s cheeks that makes Hyukjae wonder how long he’s been standing under the sun.

“Is this the part where I tell you that the sex was great and we bid each other goodbye?” Donghae asks out of the blue, eyes firmly fixed on the street where tourists are walking in groups, casually directing their cameras to the sea.  

“Not really,” Hyukjae says, eyes following the aim of Donghae’s gaze. A woman is carefully picking up her child who harmlessly fell on the floor while chasing a bird. “Unless you want to demote me to a random guy you jumped into bed with.”

Donghae chuckles, his smile is clearly reflected on the glass of the window they’re now leaning on. “ _I’m_  the random guy in the bar, remember?” He pauses to recollect his words. “I did have a great night yesterday, you’re…great. The sex was great, the whole night, in general, was great.” Hyukjae senses him abruptly shifting his gaze on him. “But it’s not just that, I liked drinking and talking to you; you’re fun and smart, pretty witty too. I don’t know if I’m making sense right now, but I really do like your company and I don’t know how it usually goes after this, but I wouldn’t want it to go the classic way. As in, we politely laugh it off and go our separate ways.”

Hyukjae stares back at him, the light of midtown is shadowed into his eyes when he smiles. “You do make a reasonable amount of sense. It wasn’t just sex for me either, I like your company too. I like talking to you. I mean, I’ve shared with you some of my secrets; Friends share secrets. We’re friends.” 

“I have to confess that I find it a bit boring that your secrets don’t include bodies buried in backyards,” Donghae says.

Hyukjae laughs. “I’m sorry for being a decent civilian who won’t get you in trouble for hanging out with.”

Donghae rests his hand on Hyukjae’s thigh, and leans in close, close enough for their lips to touch, for the corners of their smiles to meet, and Hyukjae’s mind is filled with sensations he thought he had forgotten; the feeling of the smooth, fur-like skin, so tempting and alluring, so deserving and so vulnerable under his touch; He unknots the waistband of Donghae’s bathrobe and pushes him against the wall, grips his hips in his shaking hands and he’s next thrusting into him with so much force that he has to support himself on the wall. His lips against Donghae’s nape are leaving a trail of kisses for him to notice later that night, each one of their breaths are pushing their chests closer together, and Donghae’s movements are precise and arithmetic, almost synchronizing Hyukjae’s when he comes, pleasure clearly mirrored in his eyes as he laughs at the ticklish sensation Hyukjae’s lips give around his neck.

Friends they are. People are either friends or not, and sometimes they mostly are when there’s no other label to identify themselves with. They embrace the title and throw it somewhere they can’t unearth until they find some meaning in each other.

*

Zhoumi takes off to Seoul three days earlier, and Hyukjae indulges in spending what was left of his holiday with Donghae, walking around the narrow streets of Venice, floating under the small canals above the water, trying all sorts of cheese and dried pasta and stopping by some bakeries in the morning to have a taste of Italy’s most refined sweets.

Five days are in a sense long enough to discover everything you might’ve not known about someone; Donghae is stingy with words when texting, his messages are dry and never hit more than four words. He doesn’t use emoji or emoticons or anything that could convey whatever he might be feeling. The view from his place is really nothing to be envied for, and his cigarettes are constantly changing. The smell lingers under Hyukjae’s collar for him to dwell on until it gets washed away by Venice’s mid-air. And on the morning of his last day, it hits him hard that he’s basically spent so much time with Donghae that he has no memories left of Venice; he does remember in some way the small boats, the canals, the lights, and the heat, but the fragments of his memories had somehow found a way to all be shadowed down by Donghae’s wrinkled smile.  

“You smoke a lot.” Hyukjae points out while he was packing his suitcases, Donghae is quietly lighting a cigarette on the bed. “Were you always such a heavy smoker?”

Donghae looks at the window, his hair is framing his face in a way that makes Hyukjae unable to study his reaction. “It’s just a habit I’ve picked up from my ex-wife.”

There’s something about the way Donghae has pronounced the words that made Hyukjae stop fidgeting with his clothes; It’s not really about the ex-wife part or the matter-of-factly vibe his words have carried, it’s more about the realization that Hyukjae doesn’t know anything about Donghae in spite of the small details and facts he has carefully collected over the past five days. It’s the realization that Donghae has a history of unspoken words and secrets that makes him feel like he’s standing miles and miles away, somewhere Donghae is unreachable—almost like they’re two strangers, which they are in some way.

Donghae shifts his gaze on him, his hair is still covering half his face. Hyukjae grabs a plastic tube of shaving cream and stuffs it into his bag. “Are you…”

“Bisexual?” Donghae interrupts him abruptly before he could catch back on his sentence. “Aren’t you too? You were totally checking out Zhoumi’s red-haired girl on our first night out.”

Hyukjae frowns. “I was going to say divorced. And I wasn’t checking her out. I mean yeah, I am into girls too but that’s not the point.”

Donghae laughs. “I lost count of how many times I caught you checking her ass.”

“Well, it happens that I have a staring habit that I, unfortunately, can’t overcome.” He stares at Donghae for a few seconds before shifting his gaze back to the shirt in his hands.

Donghae takes a drag on his cigarette. “Were you just trying to prove your point?”

Hyukjae laughs. “No. I was just wondering whether it would be okay to ask.”

Donghae shrugs. “Ask away.”

A silence settles and they’re no longer sitting apart. Hyukjae walks to Donghae and sits at the foot of his bed. “Why did you get divorced?”

Donghae grabs the ashtray and crushes his cigarette against it. The smoke swiftly lingers in the air, filling the space in between them before it completely vanishes away. “She cheated on me. We were already growing apart, and then that happened, so that was it for us. Sometimes I wonder if the whole thing was a pretense, we were both beating around the bush for so long, neither of us had the balls to put an end to it. Or perhaps I was the one who didn’t want to let go.”

Donghae is looking at the sheets scorned at the end of the bed. The cigarette’s smoke is slowly dissolving into the air, and Hyukjae softens at the sadness he sees in Donghae’s eyes; almost well camouflaged under the sunlight that was gradually creeping through the windows the more they talked. “I’m sorry,” Hyukjae says comfortingly. He doesn’t know how else to express his sympathy.

Donghae leans forward and kisses him. It’s a close-mouthed kiss, melancholic and reminiscent, the kind of kisses Hyukjae has never experienced on Donghae’s lips before. But kisses say a lot more than silence does. And it somehow makes Hyukjae wonder about the bruises around Donghae’s heart, how deep and cutting the scars are. How unbearable the pain must have been for him to take off to the other side of the world and never want to come back again.

It’s almost dark when he leaves, the street lamps are almost all on, his suitcase is lying abandoned in front of the main door and he feels the pressure of the minutes clocking up on him when they bid each other goodbye.

“Why don’t you stay?” Donghae has told him in between kisses. Hyukjae gazes at the sight of the sea and sky blending together in the horizon. The woman is still kissing her boyfriend in the doorway. “I can’t leave Zhoumi alone at the workshop any longer than I already did.”

Donghae doesn’t say anything. He rests his forehead against Hyukjae’s and nods. “It was nice knowing you.”

Hyukjae laughs. “Why do you have to make it sound so dramatic? Just…call me whenever you swing by Seoul.”

Donghae looks around and it somehow feels like they’re heading towards a path leading to a dead end. “I don’t know when that will be, but I’ll make sure to call you if I ever do.”

And Hyukjae kisses him one last time.

The city is slowly slipping past his fingers when he takes a taxi boat to the airport, and when he’s out far enough, he sees the lines of his hotel shimmering through the sea. He lights a cigarette he’s snatched out from Donghae’s pack and watches the water meander around the corners of the engine. It’s a picturesque view, the kind of views he’d usually like to take ten shots of and securely hang above his desk when the prints are developed, but now he just settles for watching it from afar.

*

Seoul has dust trapped inside its lungs and Hyukjae decides that nothing sucks as much as the aftermath of holidays.

It’s really not about the dust or the musty smell of his apartment, neither is it about the overwhelming inbox—chalk it up to the magic of emails for making him wake up from the fuzzy blur of small boats and vast seas— or the strong need to clean up. It’s more about the strong desire of wanting to pour himself a glass of wine and lock himself up somewhere no one can find him, away from the piles of sewing patterns and clothes waiting for his bashed-in brain to design.

But time has a way of pushing back through life when you least want it to, and Hyukjae decides that he’ll have to deal first with the interview requests and the customers’ orders if he wants to have his glass of wine and cigarettes packs.

It’s around his eleventh day in Seoul when Zhoumi starts to notice his cigarettes changing so often that he’s unable to recognize them anymore, and that he smokes now more heavily than he did in the past ten years. Hyukjae refused to give it much thought at first; smoking is addictive, and he might be developing some sort of dependency on the smell or the feeling of having smoke trapped inside his lungs. But when he starts paying extra wons for French branded cigarettes, it hits him hard that something is abruptly not the same.

It actually goes past the French branded cigarette packs and the heavy smoking. There are times when he wakes up in the morning with the realization that he’s entirely alone in his own bed—not that he hates being alone—but sometimes people have the tendency to develop a dependency on things or events or places that are hard in a sense to let go of. And Hyukjae finds it insane to feel any kind of longing for something—was it a friendship? A fling? —so short-lived and so unpromising. He finds it even more insane to miss Donghae’s laughter echoing in his 300 square feet hotel room. It’s just insane to miss Donghae this badly.

So he drowns himself in work instead; it’s the never-dying trick, you exhaust your body to such an extent that you’re physically too tired to think much, to  _feel_  much. But his fingers have a way of hovering over Donghae’s contact name whenever he fumbles with his phone; he keeps staring at the small characters constantly shaped on his screen until he decides to sleep away his thoughts instead. Social Media has made it so easy yet so hard to connect. It’s even harder when his ego takes the lead.

A week later, he starts considering the idea of seeing someone new. It’s not like he’s never jumped into bed with anyone before, unlike Donghae who seems very stranded for a smooth talker—I mean, who the fuck makes a monologue like that after a one-night stand? —he’s had a fair share of one-night stands. But he finds himself unable to go past the kissing and the rubbing, and he hates himself for having to leave his date—whatever her name was—with a smudged lipstick and messy hair.

When he gets back home, he doesn’t really bother to turn on the light. He falls boneless onto the bed, lights a cigarette and thinks. That’s what cigarettes are for; help you think without having to deal with the headache that comes with the process, jolt enough nicotine in your blood to compensate for the high levels of cortisol or adrenaline or whatever hormone is scientifically proven to induce stress. 

He grabs his smartphone, starts a new message and watches the cursor blinking. It doesn’t do to not know what to say when you really, really want to say something. He watches the smoke twirling around the ashtray, the place is so dark, so dark he can’t see anything other than the blinking of the cursor.

_Is that woman still kissing her boyfriend?_

So lame, so unoriginal, he thinks as he hits ‘send’. Yet so longful.

*

Donghae doesn’t text him back. What else to expect from the driest texter in town anyway? Whatever, Hyukjae says. He doesn’t need to know whether that woman is still kissing her boyfriend or not anyway.

*

Hyukjae decides that fashion  _is_  his life and that it’s disconcerting—yet a bit comforting— sometimes that the only thing to turn to when you’re in the darkest pits of despair is your own career. He loves designing, he loves imagining the right colors and patterns and he loves seeing the small pieces of clothing getting all shaped into something he’d feel proud to have displayed on his window.

So he decides that this is his life and everything that follows is details; it’s the easiest decision to make and the simplest to believe in. Yet, Hyukjae finds it hard to wrap his mind around the idea of having his life revolving around fashion when Donghae is standing on his doorway. And it’s even harder now that he gets to see him anywhere other than Venice; it feels like he’s getting merged into a completely different background; one he doesn’t belong to.

How easy it is, Hyukjae thinks, to say you’re over someone when he’s within an unreachable distance. How hard it is to say you’re over someone when he’s three feet away from you.

“I don’t know whether what I’m going to say is going to make any sense, but I have this idea in mind and I can’t do it with anyone other than you.” He drops sewing patterns on the desk. Hyukjae is still standing dumbfounded in the center of the room. “It’s something I’ve been thinking of for a while; a merge of Italian and Korean cultures. I want us to take inspiration from traditional garments and make something—more fashionable, more appealing to a contemporary audience…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I think I’m doing this the wrong way. I think I’m going too far ahead. Hyukjae I don’t know if you’re in this with me, but I like  _you_. I really do, a whole lot, and I would be insane to miss on being with you. My life was a mess,  _is_  still a mess, and at some point, I really wanted to set a fire and run away somewhere no one knows me. And you… you were like coming up for fresh air. I love your company; I love being with you. I thought it over before coming here, but I want to try this.”

Hyukjae grabs the sewing patterns and examines them. Green and yellow colors start filling his vision, he’s still not looking at Donghae when he says, “I told you to give me a call when you swing by Seoul, didn’t I?” He shifts his gaze to Donghae, his hair is abruptly framing his face. “Yes. I’d like to give it a chance too.”

And Donghae kisses him first, soft and slow. His mouth is sweet; the taste of what kisses should be, nothing reminiscent or melancholic, just the taste of Donghae carrying Seoul’s warm breeze on his tongue. He pushes Hyukjae to the table, their clothes are slowly getting moved out of the way. They leave trails of kisses against each other’s skins, their laughter is muffled and their grunts are even more as Donghae pushes into Hyukjae. The world is slowly drowning around them as they sigh against each other’s shoulder when they come, with Donghae’s hands roaming on Hyukjae’s body, almost drawing a map of all the places he’s been to against his skin.

Hyukjae rests his hand on Donghae’s back, his skin is warm beneath his palm. “You should do something about your texting habits, though.”

Donghae laughs. “Yes, she was still kissing her boyfriend when I left.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Will probably consider writing another part in the same verse as this, but until then, this is only it! Comments are appreciated <3


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